Grendel's Mother
by Ceris Malfoy
Summary: Beowulf, Seamus Haney translation. A piece about Grendel's mother, the water-witch. Takes place just before Beowulf comes to challenge her.


**Okay. So here's the thing. This was an assignment from my AP English Lit. course. I liked it, and spent the next two years polishing it up. I think it's finally ready for looking at. Lol. Beowulf is one of my favorite classics. Of course, given how many different versions there are out there (the movie really screwed things over), I'm going to go right out and say that I only consider the version translated by Seamus Haney as canon. That is the version that this piece is based off of. **

**Now, as to the premise behind this. The object of the assignment was to write a short version of the events in Beowulf from the perspective of another character. I, being the evil-obsessed git that I am, immediately chose Grendel's mother, the water-witch. I then tried to mimick the sentence patterns of the stanza-like story. It didn't turn out so hot, but it did keep things interesting. Consequently, my sentences end in very odd spots. Sorry about that.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't know who owns Beowulf, but it isn't me. **

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**Grendel's Mother**

_**By: Ceris Malfoy**_

It was the misery that drove her to it.

She, monster of the blood-soaked deep, who had  
murdered countless, watched thousands led to the  
slaughter, decedent of Cain, watched her only  
heir as he breathed his last. Her only son, torn  
and broken by some upstart mortal, bleeding to  
death from wounds inflicted, and not even allowed  
the mere dignity of dying whole.

She cursed this Beowulf, this murderer of the foul  
sort: one who did not kill for food, but for sport. She  
seethed in the desolate depths of these murky waters,  
her sheer fury causing her to glow: the lake burned  
like a torch in the night air. By morning-light her grief  
had risen, drowning her fury in despair and anguish.  
She had conceived Grendel in these waters, with  
another such as her; together these decedents of Cain  
banished by God. Grendel's father murdered by God's  
favored long before her son drew first breath. Without  
him her exile was bitter and lonely; until Grendel, her  
beloved son, drove away the bitterness, the misery of  
her cursed existence. So she raised him as best she  
could. Rose him to despise those who carried God's love  
while they were cursed to Hell on Earth for all Eternity.  
Her pride for her son grew even as he himself did: Grendel  
grew from boy to man, and she gloated as he took  
vengeance on those man-creatures that dared build a  
hall of light, and sing and rejoice to God, in her territory.  
Her son became powerful and dangerous, and she feared  
not for him, for what God-blessed man could harm one  
such as her son?

He would go, and she would love him and miss him while  
he was gone. And he would feast, and bring to her, his  
only true companion, bodies fresh from the hunt. Their  
souls she would consume, their flesh also, until this  
Beowulf, this foul demon of God's, tore from her son his arm  
and hand and claw also, and dared to mock her son's defeat  
by hanging the arm on the rafters of the hall for all to see.  
Her son came to her; beseeched her to make it right, and  
she could do naught but thrash about and gnash her teeth  
in fury. And so he died, flesh of her flesh, blood of her  
blood, her son and heir, cursing to Hell both her and this  
Beowulf in the same breath.

It was the misery that drove her out.

She hunted in the dark. Using long since denied skills,  
senses, she moved; stealing back her son's arm, and  
again was seized with an alost uncontainable fury. And  
in her fury, she struck, before realising that she must  
flee. And flee she did, dragging back with her the  
man-creature that she had torn with her savage claws. She  
stalked back to the safety of her moore: where water pours  
from the rocks, then runs underground, where mists steam  
like black clouds, and the grove of trees, growing up out of  
her blood-stained lake are all covered with frozen spray, and  
wind down with snake-like roots that reach as far as the water  
and help keep it dark.

Once there she replaced her son and heir's arm, and kissed  
his frozen lips; praying to the ancient devils to help her  
avenge her son, and waited, knowing that her actions would  
not go unchecked. And she hoped that it was this Beowulf  
that came for her head, for she would show him what happened  
to those who invoked the fury of a water-witch. Decendent of  
Cain, hater of God, mother of Grendel, waited. Down there  
in the blood-stained deep, she waited patiently for him. She  
waited for Beowulf.

It was the misery that she would kill for.

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**Nice and open, just like I like it. **

**~Ceris**


End file.
